


Animals

by Dagger_Stiletto



Category: The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Established Relationship, He's not happy about it, Jensen's a stripper, M/M, Not really a songfic, Pre-Slash, poor jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:29:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2367605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dagger_Stiletto/pseuds/Dagger_Stiletto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clay gets a hold of information about Jensen's past as a stripper ante-Army. There's a werewolf that likes to sell candy-flavored drugs to children and eat blonde strippers. Jensen hates them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Animals

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. I wrote this in one day. It is un-betaed. I am currently looking for a beta if anyone is interested. In the meantime, if there are mistakes that aren't deliberate, please let me know about them, and I'll fix them. This is what happens when my media player gets stuck on repeat on "Animals" by Maroon 5 while I'm reading Cougar/Jensen fics. Also, I hate the ending, but that's the best I could come up with lol  
> Cougs and JJ FTW!!  
> Feedback = <3

_“Baby, I’m preying on you tonight_   
_Hunt you down, eat you alive_   
_Just like animals, animals, like animals_   
_Maybe you think you can hide_   
_I can smell your scent for miles_   
_Just like animals, animals, like animals”_

_Sometimes, Jensen really and truly hated_ his team. Especially Cougar. Normally he loves the man, loves him with every breath in his lungs and ever piece of code running rampant through his brilliant brain.

But Cougar had done his equivalent of a laugh—a huff and a quirk of his lips, eyes sparkling—when Clay told the team the plan, so now Jensen hates him, too.

The “plan” is for Jensen to dance as a stripper in a private booth at a gay strip club. Their target is a drug dealing werewolf that is wanted not only for the drug distribution, but the fact that he’s been lacing the drugs with candy flavors to appeal to younger audiences; most recently, an 11-year-old died in the hospital from an overdose on the product. He is also known for attacking strippers. Apparently the bastard has a thing for muscular blondes. There is a one-way mirror so the target will see Jensen, while Jensen will see only himself. Cougar will be nearby at all times. He’ll close in when the double agent in the club lures the werewolf into Jensen’s booth; when the man is sufficiently distracted, Cougs will tranq the bastard, and they can take him into custody.

Somehow, Clay had found out information about Jensen’s brief gig at a strip club before he joined the Army, and Jensen _hates_ his _guts_ for telling the others. They’d guffawed, ribbing him and making jokes—as though being kicked out of his home with only one duffel for his belongings, living in a one-bedroom apartment with nine other men, and having to dance for horny men and women to be able to eat was something to be laughed at.

Of course, when he didn’t join in with the laughter or make a joke of his own, as he usually does, Cougar had stopped, watching him carefully. He’d lost all brownie points, though, when he laughed—sorta—at Jensen’s role in the mission.

Jensen had turned to Cougar, blue eyes steely, and said very clearly, “You laugh now, pussycat, but I’ll be naked and dancing in front of countless men. I won’t see them, thank baby Jesus, but they’ll see _me_ , and they’ll be paying _me_ to dance for them.” And then he’d stalked away to prepare for this sad excuse of a mission.

Despite being the nucleus of this farce, eh still had to do the normal tasks with tech and comms before they set out.

Cougar is a possessive man. He’ll surely be seething, and Jensen is more than willing to let him stew for petty revenge. They are all bastards for using past experiences against him, and they will all get theirs one way or another. Get Cougs out of the way, and he can commence with the others’ punishments.

The hardest part had been figuring out his routine. Most of the dancers had a theme about the outfit they started out in. Roque joked that he should go as a sexy Geeksquad member, and Clay suggested a fireman—because all gay men apparently have an attraction to beefcakes in fireman trousers and suspenders. Pooch suggested a sailor’s suit, but Jensen refuses to insult the Navy. Aisha wanted to see him in leopard print.

Cougar wisely stayed silent on the subject.

The blonde techie eventually decided on a cowboy getup. He purchased assless chaps, a leather vest, snakeskin boots, a western-style holster, and a gun that looked fake but was definitely real—just in case. He took an extremely long time choosing a cowboy hat, though. It was amusing to see Cougar watching every move, twitching at certain times when Jake tried on a hat. He eventually settled on a white one, which had gotten the strongest reaction from the sniper.

Of course, Roque decided to “help” by purchasing nipple clamp—not the evil ones because Cougar would probably have killed him, but the ones that gently pinched nipples and kept them hard.

Jensen wore them. For the good of the mission. And because they insisted, he shaved off his facial hair and his chest and happy trail, trimming his pubes. For the good mission. And for more ammo to justify their murders later.

Maybe if he claims battered woman syndrome…

The music choices are truly ridiculous and cliché. He will choke himself on his thong if he has to dance to “It’s Raining Men” or “Macho Man” again. The customer dicks choose the songs half the time, although sometimes when they slip money and the notes for song choice through the slot, the note tells him to pick his own song.

Still, the night is pretty shitty from 1800 hours to 2100. A transmitter hidden in his chaps keep the perverts from recording his performances—he’ll be damned if he has to catch even more shit about this mission years down the road from video uploads on the internet. He curses his team everytime he hears moans of completion and lust during the quietest parts of the songs as he dances. The dancing and pole tricks come natural to him, as he’s always had a knack for it—his mother, before becoming a hopeless alcoholic and drinking herself into a stupor, had decided the best way to channel his energy was to take him for dancing lessons; his father was convinced it was what made his only son gay. Once he got the pole dancing down pat, he’d become a great stripper.

He nearly walks out when he gets a note scrawled in Aisha’s handwriting, “ _Doing great, cowboy_ ,” with a twenty dollar bill taped to it.

She _will not_ be getting it back, the ear-collecting psycho.

He receives nothing from Cougar, which both pisses him off and depresses him.

During a break, because he got at least one while working tonight, Jensen walks out to the bar for a shot of tequila with lime and a bite to eat. He ignores all approaches from lonely men, dodges gropes, and wordlessly locates the members of his team without bringing attention to them. He sees that Cougar has been sitting at a table where he could easily see the door to Jensen’s private booth. It makes his heart flutter until he sees that the Hispanic bastard has also been watching the spectacular bubblebutt of the red-haired stripper closest to his table.

Jake may or may not allow another off-duty, brunette stripper to flirt and grind against him, and it is possible that he grinds back, out of spite.

When he goes back into that godforsaken booth, he puts all his frustration and anger into his dances. He hadn’t been the best dancer in his first club for nothing. He’d always done his best when he put his emotions into the performance. Back then, he’d had a lot of pain and anger to fuel the dances. Now he has a lifetime of PTSD, sexual tension, anger of different forms, and frustration at being in this position again to inject passion into the dances.

Blue eyes hidden by brown-colored contacts are fiery with his emotional turmoil, and he plays it up when he finally sees it in the mirror, aware how men like a stripper with “daddy issues.”

Of all the cliché crap…

His heart pounds and goose pimples dot his arms under his sweat, covered in glitter and oil, as he gets a one hundred dollar bill and a request for “Animals” by Maroon 5. This _has_ to be the guy. He was known to attack, turning into a wolf, during the howl or climax of songs that could be interpreted as werewolf anthems.

With a strength of will only Army training can conjure, he keeps his nervousness from showing and turns the music on, fully dressed in his cowboy outfit—between dances he had to get dressed so that he could do the whole thing over with the next performance. _You better be there, Cougs_ , he thinks, striking a pose with his head turned to display profile, tilted down, hand on his hat as if to take it off; it was reminiscent of a Michael Jackson in that “Smooth Criminal” music video. _There will be no sex for you for a very long time if you let this bastard bite me._ He has no intentions of becoming a werewolf.

He rolls into motion as soon as the song begins. He makes sure to flaunt abs and the curve of his ass, and that his hair color is evident, as that had been Clay’s main reason for choosing Jensen for this. He dips and rolls his hips, mouth moving as he soundlessly lip syncs the words. This song isn’t necessarily made for stripper routines, but he makes it work, improvising most of the time, grateful for the underlying beat and bass. He may overuse the pole, but he doubts the horny asshole watching truly cares.

His body tenses ever so slightly as that dreaded part comes closer and closer.

_“Maybe you think you can hide_   
_I can smell your scent for miles_   
_Just like animals, animals, like animals”_

He’s rolling on the floor, then up on his knees, bent backward. His vest is gone, the chaps hanging off a chair nearby—the only prop aside from the pole in the booth—one strap of his thong sliding down to show off the top of the dark blonde thatch at his crotch.

_“Don’t lie, lie, lie, lie_   
_You can’t deny ny, ny, ny_   
_The beast inside side, side, side”_

His back arches, thighs tensing as he works his body in ways he hasn’t done in years and has had to do all night. He’ll be sore tomorrow.

_“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yo whoa, whoa  
Just like animals, animals, like animals”_

He’s back up, lowering his thong, thumbs hooking securely. He spins in a slow circle, flashing his ass before he’s facing the mirror again. Why the hell hasn’t he been given the signal that he can stop and pack up?

_“Just like animals (yeah)  
Animals (yeah), like animals (yeah)”_

He rips off the thong, throwing his head back, and howls with Adam Levigne: _“Owwwwwwwww!!”_

Just then, the glass shatters as a half-transformed werewolf crashes through the mirror, face pulled in a snarl, one fur-covered arm lashing out.

All at once, a few things happen: Jensen dances back and jerks up the not-a-fake gun and shoots, Cougar crashes in the door and tranquilizes the bastard in the ass, and the half-werewolf, half-man slams hard into Jensen, taking him down to the floor.

And just like that, it’s over. The worst night of his life so far is over.

The target morphs back to a normal, naked, disgustingly cum-covered pervert—a meathead riddled with scars, tattoos, and burn marks. Clay and Pooch help Cougar in dragging the heavy body off Jensen. Apparently Jake’s bullet is a through-and-through high on the collarbone—no real damage done. Jensen uses his hat, which somehow had managed to stay on all throughout the dances and the attack, to cover his bits. He has scratches from flying glass, a few cuts from being slammed down to the floor on top of said glass, and a nasty gash from werewolf claws. He is immensely relieved to see a distinct lack of bite wounds and ignores the presence of his blood even as Cougar fusses.

“That was too fucking close, Cougs,” Roque growls while Pooch and Clay cuff the unconscious criminal, glaring at the mess. Aisha enters briefly to toss jeans at Jensen. “Next time, don’t ogle blonde ass so much and do your job.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Jensen declares firmly, a dead-set glare on his face, brooking no argument as he pulls on the jeans. “You all will pay for using my past against me and making fun of me for it like the douchebags you are. If there is ever a time _this_ is necessary again, pick someone else.”

“Jensen, suck it up,” Roque sneers, eyes hard. “It’s not like you haven’t done it bef—”

Jensen hadn’t known he had the speed or strength to not only punch Roque quickly enough that he was completely off guard, but to send Roque to the floor with the force of the blow to the tank’s jaw. He shakes his hand out as an afterthought, scowling down at the surprised black man.

“Fuck you, Roque.” He grabs his things and tosses the not-a-toy gun to Clay. He even takes the money. As degrading as it is to have earned it by stripping, like hell is he going to just toss it away.

And no way is Clay convincing him to donate the money to fixing the damage in the club. This is all on him.

Cougar follows him closely as he shoots straight through the crowd to the bar. He purchases a bottle of Jack Daniels and tells the tender to put it on Clay’s tab. Then they’re out to one of the cars they’d arrived in.

If he plays up a sob story to Jolene about the abuse he’s suffered tonight, that’ll wipe out his revenge on Pooch, and possibly Clay. He needs to figure out how to get back at Aisha and Roque.

Sitting in the totally-not-conspicuous SUV that he and Cougar had come here in, Jensen opens the bottle of Jack and takes a swig while Cougs gets a better look at his injuries, disinfecting and patching him up. He sits mostly still and doesn’t whine when Cougar tells him that the claw marks across his collarbone, too close to his jugular for the comfort of either of them, need stitches, even though it’s stopped bleeding for the most part. The rest are superficial.

“ _Lo siento_ ,” the sniper laments softly after a moment. As usual, his face is sincere, and there is a sad guilt in his eyes of the whole thing.

“Don’t worry about it, Cougs,” Jensen brushes it off, offering the Hispanic male a drink of his whiskey. “We can’t expect you to be Superman _all_ the time. Maybe next time, though, you’ll stick up for me when Clay tries using me as bait. It never ends well. Sometimes I think he’s trying to get rid of me.”

Cougar pulls Jensen into a deep kiss, their lips flavored with alcohol. It’s an apology kiss and a “you’re _mine_ ” kiss rolled into one, and despite the resentment he feels toward his lover’s actions in the last 27 hours, he can’t help but sink into it. It reminds him that, no, he didn’t get eaten by a mad werewolf that likes selling drugs to children, and even if he had, Cougar would have avenged his death.

Although if he _had_ died, Jensen would have haunted _all_ of their asses, and not even an exorcist would have been able to get rid of his ectoplasmic butt. If they thought he never shut up now, they had another thing coming when he’s incorporeal and unable to be eradicated.

And then Cougar does that _thing_ with his tongue, and his overactive brain sputters to a stop.

When he comes back online, he has his head pressed to Cougar’s collarbone, breathing deeply. He turns to nuzzle the tanned neck with a deep sigh. “If you want to make it up to me, you can help me get revenge on the asshats we have for teammates.”

Cougar chuckles, possessively running his hand through Jensen’s soft blond spikes, mashed down a little from his hat with no thought to being covered in stripper glitter. “ _Sí._ ”

“So what did you think of my hat? I think I looked fucking BAMF in it. Should I keep it? We could be hat buddies…”

 

~*~~*~~*~

 

 _As expected, telling Jolene about what_ her husband and Clay had done to her adopted little brother had been perfect revenge on both men. Pooch is in the doghouse for months. No nookie for the puppy.

Clay ends up mysteriously unable to pick up women no matter how hard he tries or how drunk either he or the potential one-night-standee happens to be. Cougar had concocted that little gem, and Jake has yet to glean the details from him, even when he puts his mindblowing oral skills to use.

Jake will never reveal how a scrapbook of Aisha’s ballerina years—age four through ten—ends up on display in the mess hall. Now how he rigged the washing machine to spit glitter all over Roque’s clothes; that’s what the knife-lover gets for having a predictable routine and washing his clothes when no one else does. Minimizes collateral damage and maximizes the success of any prank Jake wants to pull.

All in all, Jake is satisfied with the others’ misery, he still gets Cougar cuddles, and Cougar lets him wear his white cowboy hat during nookie-olympics.

All is right in the world.


End file.
